


forget about the fashion of your fear

by stayingputwouldbeablunder



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Non-Canonical Character Death, Support Group, implied past Kate Argent/Derek Hale - Freeform, the pack are still werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5555864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayingputwouldbeablunder/pseuds/stayingputwouldbeablunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek straightens in his seat and watches Stiles rap his fingers against the aged wood, listens to the cadence of his voice, catalogs the way his pulse skips over lies. It’s mesmerizing, how the tragedy he speaks of is contradicted by the softness of his tone. He’s beautiful and Derek wants to learn everything there is to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forget about the fashion of your fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allhalethekings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allhalethekings/gifts).



> So, 2015 was not a good year for me writing-wise. Not to say that I didn't write, because I did start a handful of stories, but I only finished a few. That really came down to two reasons: I lost faith in myself as a writer and I lacked motivation to see my fics to an end.
> 
> That being said, I love this story that I wrote for [hales-republic](https://hales-republic.tumblr.com) as part of the 2015 Sterek Secret Santa gift exchange. I have been wanting to write a support group au for a while now and while it is not the main focus of the fic, it is a big component. Also, major kudos to hales-republic for being so patient with me and my delay in posting this story in its entirety.
> 
> Some things: while it is never explicitly said, it is implied that Derek and Kate were involved at some point, and that she was the one to burn the Hale house down. It's never stated, either, what happened to her after, and although Derek does know, it doesn't change anything.
> 
> Other things: the title of this fic comes from the song [_Youth_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hx1RqFHrcG0) by Fenech-Soler, which I am linking both here and in the end notes because I could _live_ in this song.

There is a boy. Only he is not a boy because Derek saw his license once and knows that he is twenty-one. So, there is a man.

The first time he walks into the dingy meeting room, he’s as skittish as the feral kittens that live behind Derek’s building were the first time their mother brought them out of hiding. He has a black eye and a tinge, barely a wisp, of magic about him. He’s terrified, Derek realizes, flinching at the noise of chairs scraping against linoleum and the high pitched feedback of the speakers being equalized. He’s hypervigilant and the scent of tension and unease drives Derek’s wolf crazy. It whines and cries and growls as the man with the black eye clings so tightly to his canvas bag that his knuckles turn white. 

Without knowing the man’s name, his story, why he would even be in a meeting, a support group like this, the wolf wants to curl around and protect him from the world. Derek thinks he should feel weird about that but his wolf has had this instinct before, just not to this degree. That’s how he ended up with three betas from dysfunctional families, humans who needed something more from their lives than living in fear. 

The man sits in a chair near the back, avoiding everyone the way first timers do. Derek has been coming to this support group for four months now, every single Wednesday at nine o’clock at night. It had been his therapist’s suggestion first, because he refused to talk to her about his family. Then it had been Laura’s, offering to go with him. She had for two months or so, sat in the uncomfortable fold-up chairs and listened to people tell their stories of tragedy, how they ended up in a support group for people who had lost their entire family.

Derek felt like a fraud for being there because he still had Laura, his older sister and alpha. Then Derek lost her too, to something as meaningless as a reckless young hunter wanting to make a name for herself. He’d kept going though, feeling like he owed it to her. He kept going to prove to himself that he’d get through it somehow.

That was two months ago. Derek’s moved away from the back rows since then, always taking the same seat in the middlemost row, at the end so he can leave quickly if he needs to. The regulars, the people that are there every week, greet him with perfunctory waves and quiet hellos, the same way they always do. Derek tilts his chin at each one of them, if only because it means he can turn in his seat and see the man with the black eye shifting restlessly.

He introduces himself as Stiles after the woman leading the meeting asks for new members to stand but doesn’t say anything after that. Derek watches his whiskey eyes flick across the room for a few seconds, settling on Derek for the briefest of moments before darting back to the vacant seat in front of him. The wolf rumbles its worry which only makes Derek jittery.

Stiles is out the door the second the meeting is over, sparing no one a moment even though the regulars usually like to introduce themselves to newcomers. Derek can hear his heartbeat, escalated through the entire hour and a half meeting, finally start to slow as it leaves earshot. The seat that Stiles had occupied carries a faint trace of magic and when Derek walks past it on his way out of the room, it takes everything not to catalog the multifaceted scent.

\- - -

The next time Stiles shows up at the support group, the bruising around his eye is yellow and scent of magic stronger. He’s still skittish and avoids speaking to anyone but his eyes catch Derek’s as he takes a different seat than last time, still in the back but not at the end of the row. Derek wants to ask if Stiles knows what he is, if he can sense it. His family’s former emissary could, had once told Laura and Derek and Cora that supernatural creatures such as werewolves gave off certain auras. Derek’s pack nowadays doesn’t have an emissary but that’s not unusual, especially in metropolises like New York City. Werewolves may not be common knowledge but wolves inhabiting cities tend in belong to small packs, so as not to step on the toes of their surrounding brethren.

If Stiles does know what Derek is - the alpha of a four person pack, the last living Hale - he makes no indication of it. He makes no indication of anything, other than still being jumpy and uncomfortable. Somehow the other regulars in the support group just know not to go digging for answers, to give him only the barest form of acknowledgement in the hopes that one day he’ll open up.

On the day he does, Derek is frazzled on behalf of Isaac who spent four hours pacing in Derek’s loft, mumbling about how nervous phone interviews make him. It’s also a full moon tomorrow and the pull to shift, even into beta form, is calling to Derek like it does every month. He’s so focused on that he doesn’t notice Stiles is sitting a row in front of him until he stands up and walks to the podium, the stench of magic left in his wake making Derek’s nostrils flare.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski,” the mage says softly, hands coming up to grip at the podium. “The very last of the Stilinskis, in fact. Would you like to hear why?”

There are various responses, verbal and physical. Derek straightens in his seat and watches Stiles rap his fingers against the aged wood, listens to the cadence of his voice, catalogs the way his pulse skips over lies. It’s mesmerizing, how the tragedy he speaks of is contradicted by the softness of his tone. He’s beautiful and Derek wants to learn everything there is to know.

He loses track of how long Stiles talks for, only realizing it’s time to go when this week’s group leader stands and thanks Stiles for sharing. Stiles nods and thanks everyone for listening to him rant, heads straight for his bag, and disappears out the door. The wolf growls in protest, wanting Derek to finally introduce himself to Stiles formally.

He debates the following week, the week after that, and the week after that. Stiles stands at the podium each time and talks and talks and talks. Derek learns that his mother passed away when Stiles was nine and his father earlier this year. He was the sheriff of the small town Stiles grew up in and when he died in the line of duty, Stiles lost every reason to return home. 

The scent of magic around him varies by the week, as do the bruises that Stiles thinks he’s hiding. Derek never smells blood on him, never scents nefarious things such as dark magic, never picks up on other werewolves. But still Stiles shows up brandishing bruises on new places of his body. A part of him wonders if that’s why Stiles was so skittish the first few weeks, if he was being abused. The wolf wants to harm this imaginary abuser, wants to give chase and snap teeth.

Only, Derek doesn’t. Stiles is better now, almost seven months since he’s started coming to the support group. He smiles sometimes, exchanges greetings with the regulars, occasionally offers cautious hellos to Derek. Soon, he probably won’t come to the meetings at all; most people stop by now, no longer needing the support. Derek has seen people come and go for over a year now and knows this.

In all honestly, sometimes he’s not sure he even needs to still be here. The pack is his family now, the closest people in his life. They drive him batshit crazy sometimes but they’re his, the people who check in when they haven’t heard from Derek in week, the people who bring him dinner when he doesn’t feel like cooking, the people who meet him after work for drinks that won’t get them drunk. Laura had been the one to turn them at Derek’s request, had loved them like siblings, been responsible when they’d had trouble adjusting to the change. They miss her too but they have each other and Derek.

Deep down, in his darkest thoughts though, Derek knows why he still needs the support group. In the times when he’s at his lowest, the days where he would give anything to see Cora smiling or hear his parents embarrassing form of flirting or feel Laura’s presence nearby, he can pinpoint it easily.

It’s a story as old as werewolf lore, a story that has been repeated throughout history time and time again.

You let hunters into your den, you pay the price.

\- - -

The eleven month mark since Laura’s death coincides with the first time Derek speaks in sentences longer than one word to Stiles. Stiles, as Derek has realized, seems to bounce from row to row, never occupying a single place longer than two weeks. He also leaves immediately after every meeting, swinging his messenger bag across his chest. Only this Wednesday night he lingers, the scent of magic surrounding him. 

Derek is stepping out of the building when Stiles approaches him, cheeks pink from the cold. He’s decked out in a beanie, scarf, puffy down coat, and what looks to be fingerless gloves. Derek appraises him for a moment before slipping his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, his own scarf brushing against the grain of his beard.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Stiles replies, scent a mixture of nerves with the undercurrent of eagerness. “Do you, have, would you maybe want to get dinner? We ran late and I’m starving and don’t know this area nearly as well as I should.”

Derek tilts his head a fraction as Stiles rocks back on his heels. His pulse didn’t skip as he said it but what he’s asking for is a far jump from the barely there association they have now. 

Derek finds himself agreeing anyways, shrugging his shoulder in the direction of a twenty-four hour pizza place that has the best margherita pizza this side of Manhattan. Stiles smiles, so easily it makes Derek want to return it, falling into place beside him on the sidewalk. They don’t talk but it isn’t awkward, not until they get to the restaurant and the hostess waggles her eyebrows at Derek.

After they’ve placed their orders, that’s when the awkward sets in. In Derek’s defense, he’s still not sure why Stiles asked him to get food. Their waitress brings them a bowl of garlic knots and Stiles immediately goes for one.

“You never talk,” he says between bites, oregano sticking to the pads of his fingers. “We go to a support group that encourages it and you never do. Why is that?”

Derek bites a piece off the bread, wincing as a large chunk of garlic hits his tongue. “What do you want me to talk about?”

The spike of curiosity in Stiles’ scent makes Derek’s wolf perk up.

“Why you present yourself as this hardened, emotionless person when the group leaders ask you to talk but you always look like you’re about to break down when Sherri talks about her daughters, or when Bennet talks about his brother, or when I talk about my dad.”

Derek pauses with his water halfway to his mouth, eyes locked with Stiles. The mage hasn’t shifted, hasn’t started fidgeting in his seat like Derek has become accustomed to seeing him do in the support group. He just sits there, waiting, whiskey eyes breaking away only to ask their waitress for more marinara.

When their pizzas arrive, Stiles has apparently tired of waiting and launches into how he found the support group. Derek watches him blot his slice of pizza only to cover it with fresh grated parmesan. Bits fall off when he brings the slice to his mouth, scattering all over the table and his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to notice until a glob of sauce catches on his collar. Then he’s blushing, calling himself a slob and apologizing, laughing at himself. 

Derek does open up as Stiles starts on his fourth piece, about how he ended up in the support group. He talks about the therapist he no longer sees and Laura. How she’d spoken about their family at the very first meeting they’d attended, not in significant detail, but enough to get the point across that despite what Derek thought, the circumstances leading up the loss of their family had not been his fault. When she had returned to her seat, she’d slipped her hand into Derek’s and hadn’t let go until the hour left in the meeting had passed.

Their waitress brings the bill along with two chocolate mints and Derek pushes the mints towards Stiles before handing his credit card to the waitress. Stiles smiles at this, asking “not a fan of chocolate?”

And Derek shakes his head, replying “One of the few people in the world. Laura was relentless about me ‘giving it a chance’ any time one of us had a birthday.”

“Maybe we can change that,” Stiles says, almost to himself, as he roots around in his bag.

When the waitress comes back with the receipt and pizza boxes, Stiles slaps cash on the little tray with the receipt, leaving no room for Derek to argue over him paying the tip. Instead he focuses on shoving the pizza box into his bag, mumbling about grease stains.

As they step back onto the street, Derek hesitates, not knowing what the proper goodbye procedure is for something like this. Stiles is pulling at his hat and scarf, shivering and mumbling again. 

“You going to be alright walking home?” Derek asks, remembering that Stiles said he’s not as familiar with the area as he should be.

“Yeah, no need to worry about me.” Stiles tilts his head to one side and Derek hears the joints in his neck pop. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll pay you back next week, alright?”

Derek nods and watches Stiles grin, waving as he turns to start heading down the street. It’s only a split second as he steps away, that Derek catches the scent of magic and the flash of a rune graze Stiles’ back.

\- - -

Derek goes through the week thinking it was a fluke or that maybe Stiles just wanted to feel Derek out before deciding to stop attending the support group. Only when Wednesday comes around the following week, there’s a piece of dark chocolate on his chair that smells like Stiles rubbed his hands all over it and the mage one row behind him. Derek raises one eyebrow but picks the candy up and turns to Stiles. Stiles mouths “try it” as this week’s leader steps up to the podium.

Like the week before, Stiles lingers at the front door after the meeting, asking if Derek wants to get dinner again. He has a bike at his side this time, keeps one hand gripped on the handlebars as they walk three blocks to the pizza place again. Derek watches him lock his bike to a stair railing across the street then dart through traffic on his way back to Derek.

They have a different waitress this time, this one casting Derek prolonged looks. After she takes their order with a grin and sashays away, Stiles rolls his eyes. It makes Derek’s heart skip, makes the wolf preen, that the sharp scent of jealously seeps into the air. Stiles catches Derek staring at him and rolls his eyes again, focusing on the menu and biting at his lip; it doesn’t stop the corners of his mouth from turning up.

Stiles doesn’t ask why Derek never talks at the support group again, this time curious as to what he does for a living. Derek prefaces his response with “it’s really not that interesting” but Stiles waves him on, picking at a garlic knot the waitress must have brought while Derek wasn’t paying attention. 

“I work at an outdoor recreational store.”

Stiles blinks and tilts his head, squinting. “Like, camping and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“They have those in the city?”

Derek shrugs. “We have everything in this city. You’d be surprised how busy we can get.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Derek does. He talks about people he’s met, the ones who are regular customers that split their time between the city and rest of the state, the ones who actually need camping gear. He talks about the people that are clearly newcomers to the north that ask him what the thickest coats are or which boots provide the best traction on ice. He talks about the people who buy and sell their bikes, most of them road bikes like Stiles’, and how he always insists that they buy helmets. He doesn’t tell Stiles that Cora split her head open once when she was four after riding her bike into a street sign and after that, their parents always made the three of them wear helmets when on bikes, regardless of werewolf healing.

Stiles inhales one piece of pizza before diving into what he does full time: getting a degree at Columbia. He talks about his classes and his professors, about his advisor and his major. Derek doesn’t ask the question he always used to hate when he was in college - what are you going to do after? - but Stiles answers it anyways, picking at a piece of crust.

“I always thought I’d go into criminal justice, you know? Maybe law enforcement, like my dad. I don’t think I can anymore, I don’t think I can live with that fear of knowing I could die at a moment’s notice because someone doesn’t want to cooperate. Sometimes I wonder how my mom did it, being married to-, I mean, Beacon Hills isn’t like a plethora of crime or anything, but there were instances. So I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“S’not like I used to degree for anything,” Derek offers, ignoring the way their waitress brushes against his arm to set the bill down on the table.

Stiles snatches the bill away and shoves a wad of cash at their waitress, not paying her more attention than is necessary. “Tell me,” he says, scent shifting away from stress to curiosity.

This time when they step outside the restaurant, there is no hesitation. 

“Have dinner with me next week,” Derek says, inflection leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“Only if you give me your number,” Stiles replies, face flushed for reasons more than just the cold.

\- - -

One their third dinner, Derek finally gets confirmation as to whether Stiles is a mage and Stiles lights up, grinning so widely it must hurt. “I was wondering when you might catch on,” he jests, drawing a rune on the back of Derek’s hand. It flares a bright red, quick enough that Derek catches it but not long enough anyone around them would. This makes Stiles laugh and bite at his lip. “Just like I was wondering if you were going to tell me what you are. Though, you’ve probably scented things on me before, huh?”

It’s like a flood gate opening, their topics of conversation. Nothing can be said explicitly of course, but it makes Derek want to trust Stiles more. He talks about how his best friend was bitten at the age of ten and how it wasn’t until two years later that they discovered Stiles had a spark capable of magic. He talks about how they had to figure everything out on their own because lacked any sort of guidance other than what Stiles could scrounge up on the internet. He talks about how they were inseparable growing up, that his best friend still lives in California but they don’t talk as much as they used to before the Sheriff died.

When they leave the restaurant, Stiles takes Derek’s palm in his hands, draws a rune with his fingertip, and whispers something in Latin. The wolf bristles as the magic surrounds Derek but Stiles is smiling nervously.

“I, it’s a simple protection rune, that’s all. When I went to wash my hands, I overheard one of the waiters say some guy got mugged a block over last night and I, I thought-, I can undo it if-"

But Derek doesn’t let him continue. He leans in, bringing Stiles so close their foreheads almost touch, curling his hand around Stiles’. “Thank you,” he says, squeezing Stiles’ hand in his own.

Stiles squeezes back, scent warm with affection, and asks “next week?”

\- - -

Unlike the weeks previous, they text back and forth, conversations short but there none the less. By the time the next Wednesday comes around, they’ve agreed upon a new place to get dinner. Derek finds Stiles in the spot next to where he always sits at the support group, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his hoodie. There are bruises on his wrist, spanning the back of his hand and across one knuckle.

It’s not that they’ve been entirely absent, the marks; Derek has just been more focused on the words that spill from Stiles’ mouth than the bruises that mar the pale skin dotted with moles. Derek spends the entire meeting wanting to ask who or what did it, injured him. It brings back all the feelings his wolf had had the first time Stiles had walked into the support group, terrified and sporting a black eye.

They’ve only just sat down at the restaurant when Derek bares his teeth; the bruise continues up Stiles’ forearm.

“Who did that?” he asks through clenched teeth, hands fisted in his lap.

Stiles hums, focused more on the menu that Derek. “Who did what?” he asks, flicking a page over with a fingertip of his uninjured hand.

“The fucking bruises on your wrist.”

Whiskey eyes glance away from the list of entrees to meet Derek’s. The air around them flares with anger on Derek’s part and confusion on Stiles’. The urge to growl and flash red eyes is only hampered by the arrival of their waiter who introduces himself and takes their drink orders. He leaves them after scribbling something down on a pad of paper, the awkwardness that hasn’t been present since their first dinner settling in.

“Who?” Derek prompts, growing impatient.

Stiles frowns, holding his hand out to inspect the purplish marks like he hadn’t noticed their presence before Derek pointed them out. Then something shifts and his frown deepens. The wolf is on the brink of snarling when Stiles whispers “fuck” under his breath and starts shaking his head.

“I never told you about my job, did I?”

Derek still has his hackles raised, quips “your job involves you being injured regularly? Because this isn’t the first time you’ve-”

“Okay, first off I’m like the world’s most injury prone bike messenger on the weekends, alright? Plus, it’s not like New Yorkers are all that friendly to cyclists. Second, what do you mean this isn’t the first time I-” The words seem to escape him when Derek averts his gaze to his untouched menu. A part of him is curious to see the expression Stiles is wearing, though the air is still thick with clashing emotions.

“You’ve been taking note of my bruises?” When Derek doesn’t reply, Stiles’ heart starts to race. “Derek.”

“The first meeting, you walked in with a black eye and reeking of fright. It was hard not to notice.”

Derek finally raises his eyes away from the table to find Stiles' eyebrows furrowed and his lip between his teeth. There’s a faint color to his cheeks that could be attributed to the lighting over their booth but his pulse betrays him.

“I was three weeks out from losing my dad and picked a fight with a guy that I delivered a court summons to. I would have been fine except he happened to be an alpha who didn’t like being told what to do by some puny mage. That was a couple of days before the first meeting I came to.”

Just the thought of another werewolf, an alpha at that, harming Stiles makes Derek’s wolf pop its jaw. Stiles must be able to sense the rage radiating off of Derek because he reaches a hand across the table, the one not bruised.

“Hey, don’t do that. I deserved it. I was pissed off and looking for a fight. And I healed, no permanent damage done. So retract your claws before they split your skin.” Derek’s lip curls at being chided but he does so. “I was fine, okay? I am fine. I just bruise easily and tend to flail when I have to avoid getting hit. I’m pretty sure I got the bruise I have now from a side view mirror, not a person. So stop fretting over me being a fragile human being and decide what you want to eat because I actually do have to get home at a decent time tonight.”

The following conversation is stilted until Stiles takes a rubber band from around his wrist and shoots it square in the middle of Derek’s chest. “Don’t be such a sourwolf,” he says when Derek raises an eyebrow. He wants to call Stiles out on being immature but then he grins and Derek’s mood is eased.

By the time they’ve paid the bill and are headed toward the exit, everything has shifted back to being comfortable. Not easy, because there is still a lingering question of what exactly this is; not easy, because Derek is still thinking about the alpha who gave Stiles a black eye eight months back. Stiles seems to be fine though, stepping out onto the sidewalk with a shiver.

Normally they would exchange goodbyes now, and Stiles does turn towards Derek like he has every intention of simply confirming that they’ll have dinner the next week, but then Derek is reaching out, tugging Stiles forward until their chests are pressed together through layers and layers of fabric. He should feel guilty about it, how desperate he is probably coming off; for all the weeks past, this is the most physical interaction they’ve had. But Stiles just laughs quietly, arms sliding over Derek’s shoulders and returning the embrace.

It lasts longer than what most people would consider an entirely platonic hug, Derek knows that, but he doesn’t care, his focus concentrated on trying to not sniff and lick and nuzzle at Stiles’ neck like the wolf is chanting at him to do. Stiles is being a good sport about it at least, until something _gives_ in Derek’s chest and he can’t stop himself from nudging gently at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw so he can press his nose there. That’s when Stiles must realize exactly what line Derek has crossed.

Scent marking, for all intents and purposes, comes second nature to werewolves. They scent their possessions with repeated touches, scent people close to them in similar ways. What Derek is doing is something Erica and Boyd do because they’ve been together for two years and have no intention of ever breaking up.

Tentatively, a hand slides into his hair and Derek shudders against Stiles. He can feel the thrum of magic around them, can taste it in the air here in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Anyone walking past that isn’t human can probably taste it too, can probably smell the way their scents are wrapping around each other, because that’s the goal.

Just like Stiles cast a simple protective rune for Derek’s safety a couple weeks prior, Derek can do this: leave the scent trace of an alpha werewolf on Stiles’ skin and clothes as a warning not to mess with him. In the back of his mind, Derek wonders if Stiles’ friend ever did this or if he knows what is going on from time spent studying magic.

There’s a tug, gentle against his scalp, and Derek feels Stiles’ nose drag across his cheek then bump against his own nose. Their foreheads are pressed together then, faces so close Derek can’t focus his vision. Stiles sighs and drops his hand to Derek’s chest.

“I need to go, I’ve got a five thousand word essay to write and edit by Friday. So I need to go. But, Derek, we-”

“Text me when you get back home,” Derek says in lieu of letting Stiles finish his train of thought.

Stiles shakes his head then pulls Derek into another hug before turning away and walking fast in the direction of where he lives. Derek watches his retreating back, listening to the rabbiting heartbeat until it fades from range. In his head, the wolf is giddy, finally achieving something it has wanted to do for months. Derek feels a little giddy too, like a weight has been lifted off his chest that he didn’t realize was there. He smiles and turns in the direction of home.

\- - -

The walk from the building the support group meets in to the restaurant adds an additional five blocks in the opposite direction of where Derek lives so by the time he gets back, he’s cold and teetering on the edge of being emotionally drained. He opts out of showering, washing only his face and stripping down to just his boxer briefs before falling into bed, knowing that he needs to change the sheets tomorrow anyways. In the morning, he gets dressed methodically, takes the subway, then walks to work. By the time he clocks out, all he can smell on his clothes are the scents that make up the store: metal and leather and plastic.

On the walk home he remembers that he made plans with the betas for dinner and winds up being fifteen minutes late. The hostess at the restaurant waves him back without paying him any real attention, eyes focused on a map of open tables. Derek hears his pack before he sees them, Erica griping at Isaac for hogging the drink menu.

When he does spot them, Erica starts waving, grinning as Isaac rolls his eyes and Boyd watches Erica fondly. Then, like a switch being flipped, Erica’s expression shifts into a smirk, the air filling with the scent of satisfaction.

No sooner has Derek sat down than Erica is wheedling him with “who’s the guy?” at the same time Isaac is saying, stunned, “he’s the _mage_.”

Isaac had been at Derek’s apartment the night Stiles had cast the protection rune because his apartment was being fumigated. And while Stiles had touched him long enough to leave his scent, it had been masked by the box of leftover pizza Derek carried home. Isaac had only picked up on the scent of magic because it was so foreign to him and Derek, new into his friendship with Stiles, had been cautious to divulge anything other than he had met a mage.

Erica’s eyes go wide for a moment, lips curling into a pleased grin. Isaac ducks his head and Derek sighs; he knows he would have had to tell them one day. Boyd casts Derek a sympathetic look when Erica squeals and slaps the edge of the table with her hands.

Derek tells them only what he’s comfortable with sharing in regards to Stiles because this is still new, still fragile enough that Derek doesn’t know what to call it. When Derek tells them he’s a student at Columbia, Isaac perks up, wanting to know about the campus; he’d considered going there once, but settled on NYU instead. Boyd asks whether Stiles wishes to bind himself to himself to a pack or if his interest in Derek is personal, to which Derek’s ears flush red. Then, when Derek asks the waitress to bring the check and to-go boxes, his phone surreptitiously disappears from sight only to be returned from Erica’s general direction with a quiet snicker.

Once they leave the restaurant, Erica goes in for a hug. She rubs her cheek against Derek’s, laughing and telling him to trim his beard. Isaac makes puppy eyes until Derek hands over his leftovers, grinning when his alpha rolls his eyes but pats his shoulder anyways. Boyd untangles himself from Erica’s grip, reaching a hand out to shake Derek’s.

Of the three of them, he’s the calmest, the most reserved, not because he lacks emotion or care, but because that’s simply who he is. Laura loved that about him, used to say he was so much like Derek in that regard, preferring not to talk just to fill silence. That’s why when he speaks now, it hits Derek hard.

“Laura would be so happy for you, Derek,” he says, smiling as the skin around his eyes crinkles. “As are we.”

Erica starts nodding, curling into Boyd’s side again. “Yeah!”

Isaac joins in too, nudging Derek’s elbow. “Really.”

Derek doesn’t reply, stays silent far longer than he should, thoughts swirling around what Boyd said. _Laura would be so happy for you._ It’s not that in all the weeks of seeing Stiles he suddenly forgot that his sister was dead and his family was murdered, the same way it wasn’t that Derek had completely missed the presence of bruises on Stiles’ skin. Stiles’ company just shifted some of the time Derek usually spent missing his sister after meetings with the support group to something not as depressing. He thought he was okay with that.

He’s not.

The betas pick up on the change in Derek’s demeanor, shifting on their feet. Erica pipes up that she’ll see Derek on Saturday because he promised to help her and Boyd build their entertainment center before tugging at Boyd’s arm as a cue to leave. Boyd places a hand on Isaac’s forearm and they both offer goodbyes too, turning in the direction of the subway. Derek watches them walk away, still lost in his own thoughts.

 _Laura would be so happy for you_ is all he hears in his head the entire trip home.

It’s upon him then, the realization that Laura has been gone just shy of a year. The anniversary is circled on the calendar that hangs on the refrigerator, other various commitments scribbled across the days, a tiny sticker with a paw print indicating the full moon. Derek drops into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at the calendar while the clock on the wall ticks by the seconds.

_Laura would be so happy for you._

\- - -

It’s true, probably, that Laura would be happy for him. Happy that he is moving on with his life, happy that he wants to pursue a relationship or whatever it is that Stiles is offering after what happened last time. She would probably rib him for finding interest in a mage then demand to know every detail of their dinners. She would probably _like_ Stiles and that is what makes the hollow feeling in Derek’s chest grow and ache.

\- - -

There’s irony somewhere in the anniversary of Laura’s death falling on a Wednesday. Derek has the next two days off from work, took them off months ago after he uncomfortably explained to his manager why he wouldn’t be able to come in. His manager had put a hand on Derek’s shoulder and told him he completely understood and that was that.

The morning drags from the moment Derek wakes up. He mills around, cleaning, trying to find something to do that will keep his thoughts occupied from anything other than _you lost Laura one year ago_. He knows he needs to get in the Camaro that has been sitting undisturbed for nearly six months and drive home. He knows he needs to buy a bouquet of curcumas and go visit her grave. He knows he needs to do something but he _can’t_.

Derek eventually turns his phone to silent after it spends nearly an hour chiming with text messages and shrilling with phone calls; the betas, growing anxious because they know what this day means for their alpha. They felt it too, when Laura was ripped from the world, the way all werewolves feel when a member of the pack is lost. _Like losing a limb_ , Derek’s uncle Peter had said once when Derek was still a child.

There’s a bottle of wolfsbane infused whiskey in the cabinet that could keep him from thinking, the same bottle Laura had bought Derek for his birthday just three months before she died. He drank half of it the night after he became the last of the Hales, got the equivalent of alcohol poisoning and spent ten hours huddled over the toilet with the betas fretting over him.

Instead of giving into what would be easiest - drowning himself in alcohol - Derek goes for a run and ends up in a different borough. The wolf keeps telling him to run and run and run, to visit his former alpha, his former pack. Derek keeps running until his lungs are on fire and his skin has gone numb; despite being a werewolf and benefit of running warm, it is still March in New York City.

The sun is setting when Derek makes his way to Central Park, cold and exhausted but not caring. They, he and Laura, used to meet here for lunch sometimes, when she could get away from her job at the city’s child welfare services office. They’d eat and talk and reminisce about the few times that their parents had brought them here as children. They’d meet with the betas on early weekend mornings and give chase like they were kids playing tag and not adult werewolves.

Eight fifty rolls around and instead of taking a right that would lead him the direction of support group, Derek goes left and heads home. The regulars know what today is - they have to because they knew Laura too - but he doesn’t want their support, even though he needs it. Plus, it’s not like Stiles will be there; he has a mid-term that is probably wrapping up right now and texted Derek three days ago that he wouldn’t be in attendance. Derek never replied.

He strips when he gets home, stands under the showerhead until the blistering water turns his skin red. He’s so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t hear the quiet knocking on his door until he’s toweling off. It’s not the pack - they all have keys - and other than them, no one else knows his address. That’s why, when he opens the door, Derek is surprised to see Stiles standing there.

He’s frowning, cheeks red and scent a harsh mix of stress and pain and sorrow. Derek doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how Stiles got his address or why. Stiles’ expression grows even more distressed before he speaks.

“Your pack called me,” he says, voice quick, cautious. “Erica, she said she got my number from your phone.”

The disappearance of his phone at dinner the week prior makes sense now.

“I’m sorry,” Derek replies, the weight of the day starting to settle back on his shoulders.

“You didn’t tell me it’s been-”

“Don’t,” comes out of his mouth on automatic, defensive, almost a growl.

Stiles doesn’t back away or flinch, just tilts his head to the side. “Derek.”

Derek doesn’t realize he’s dropped his fangs until the word “please” comes out with a lisp.

There's a pause before Stiles sighs and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “I know, Derek. I know how you feel. That’s why they called me, because you weren’t replying to their texts or phone calls. I know better than anyone else how shitty today is for you, so please let me inside.”

It’s heartfelt and painfully true and Derek finds himself too exhausted to argue, stepping aside and closing the door behind him. Then he has his arms full of Stiles, Stiles’ arms around his neck and his own wrapping instinctively around Stiles’ waist. They stand there for some indiscernible amount of time, Derek’s hands clenched into the back of Stiles’ coat as Stiles rubs his hand back and forth across Derek’s shoulder.

“Tell me what you need,” Stiles says eventually, once the hug doesn’t feel necessary to keeping Derek upright.

“I need to see Laura,” is muffled as it comes out of Derek’s mouth, pressed into the crook of Stiles’ neck. It smells like magic and safety here, like things Derek can trust.

“Where?"

“North of Albany.”

Stiles nods, taking a half a step back away from their embrace. “Do you have a car?”

Derek finally raises his eyes and when they meet Stiles’, he looks serious. “It’s a three hour drive.” Even if they left now, they wouldn’t get there until well after midnight which defeats the whole purpose. The guilt overwhelms him again, because that was the one thing he needed to do today and couldn’t.

“Do you have a car?” Stiles repeats, hands on Derek’s arms now.

Derek nods, eyes flicking to the bowl on the table to the left of the front door. Two sets of keys are sitting at the bottom of the dish, one more battered than other. The Camaro had been something they shared even though Laura had been the one to buy it, insisting that they might as well since it wasn’t like they needed the car often, just when they needed to get out of the city. Even now, Derek thinks of it as Laura’s; her name is still on the title, after all.

“Alright.” Stiles walks to the bowl, plucks a set of the car keys from it, and puts his hand on the door knob. “Let’s go.”

\- - -

The drive is mostly quiet once they leave the city, Derek only breaking the silence to give directions; Stiles never gave him the option to drive and for that, Derek is thankful. Stiles doesn’t fiddle with the radio or press the various buttons on the dashboard that could turn on music, just adjusts the knobs for the heating every now and then.

By the time they pull off the interstate for Derek’s hometown, having stopped only once for gas an hour back, the clock has rolled over to _1:30_. It’s on a smaller highway that Derek can start to feel it, the tug toward Hale territory. Before the fire that had decimated his family, Hale territory had encompassed almost an entire county. It still could have after if Laura and Derek had decided to stay, but when they didn’t, too scarred to stay in a town that held so many memories, they met with the alpha of the territory closest to them and came to an agreement: the other pack could move into the area if they promised to look after it, as well as cede ownership back to Laura should her pack ever choose to return.

When she died, the other alpha had reached out to Derek and assured him that their original agreement would still be honored, that the territory would always belong to the Hales no matter whether they chose to reside there or not.

The drive through town and out into the forest makes Stiles’ pulse rise but he doesn’t say anything. As they come around a ridge, the road curving sharply with the landscape, Derek can see the cemetery. It’s not as large as the town cemetery but larger than Derek would have ever expected to see in his lifetime considering the only people buried here bare the name Hale.

Stiles parks the car off to the side of the road, letting it sit idle for a few moments before turning the engine off, plunging them into darkness. There are no lights here, no lights for at least a mile back, because the road they are on only leads to the house Derek once called home. The moon is a few nights shy of full but still bright enough to cast a faint glow over them. Derek has the benefit of being able to adjust quickly; Stiles’ eyes will take more time.

Laura’s headstone stands out amongst the rest, still shiny and unweathered and tucked into a corner plot. Next to it is another reading _Cora Anne Hale_ , and just above, a joint headstone with the names of their parents inscribed side by side. Crawling up the faces of both - up the faces of all the headstones belonging to werewolves - are mostly dead stalks of wolfsbane. Derek had planted seeds in front of Laura’s headstone the last time he was here but never came back to see whether they took.

The ground is frozen and hard beneath Derek’s feet, feels even worse when he sinks to his knees on the unkempt path. Stiles is standing by the car, tense and hyperaware of every noise coming from the woods around them. Any other time, Derek might comment on it because he knows Stiles grew up in a town surrounded by forests. Now, he can’t find words for anything.

 _Laura would be so happy for you_ rings in his ears and Derek lets himself give in.

He cries, the same ugly raw way he had cried when he and the betas buried Laura here. He cries for all the times he never let himself in the past year, always trying to keep it together, always telling himself he would get through it. It hits him that if he hadn’t already been attending the support group, he would be much worse off, that if he hadn’t been going he would have never met Stiles and probably wouldn’t be here but in his apartment, wasted on shitty spiked booze.

_Laura would be so happy for you._

“Hi, Laur,” Derek says, voice breaking over his sister’s name. “Sorry I’m late. Sorry I haven’t been here since the fall. I miss you. The betas do too. I should-, they should have been here too. I didn’t handle today well. I ignored them and they had to call Stiles.” Derek pauses, rubs a sleeve across his face, and shifts his legs until he’s sat more comfortably. “He’s a mage, like Deaton was. Not an emissary but could be I think. I met him at the support group.”

A cloud passes overhead and the moonlight grows dim for a minute.

“He drove me here. He-” Derek stops, dips his chin and chokes out a broken laugh. “We’re friends. For now. Boyd thinks you would be happy for me. So do Erica and Isaac. I hope you would be too. You’d have liked him, Lo. He’s-”

Beautiful. Compassionate. Intelligent. Protective. Strong. Everything Derek could want in a significant other.

Derek doesn’t let himself continue talking about Stiles, instead shifting to the pack and how they’re all doing. He tells Laura about Isaac’s new job as a paralegal in a small law firm, about Erica’s promotion at the record store she works at, about Boyd’s internship at the Bronx Zoo. How they have all grown in the six months since he was here last to visit the rest of their family. Derek could talk about his pack for hours instead of himself but he eventually reaches a point where he knows he’s just avoiding it.

Stiles is still standing by the car, dutifully, like he is willing to endure the cold as long as Derek does. It makes Derek’s heart ache. The air is crisp, dry like it isn’t in the city, the scent of pine and snow overpowering everything, but if Derek strained, he knows he would be able to pick up the chemical mess that is Stiles’ scent right now. Because he does know what today feels like, knows the hollow echo that they live with daily more intimately than any of the other people in Derek’s life.

Come his own father’s death anniversary in a few months, Stiles might be in the same boat that Derek is now: talking to a grave like he’s catching up with an old friend.

Two things happen simultaneously: a sharp intake of breath escapes from Derek’s lips, and the wolf, silent since they arrived at the cemetery, cries mournfully.

Derek, shifting on the ground, turns toward the car and waves a hand at Stiles, gesturing him over. It takes a few seconds but Stiles pushes away from the Camaro, cautious as he approaches the graves. The steps he takes across the ground are measured, like his can see the invisible lines that designate one plot from another. Then he’s standing next to Derek, pulse elevated.

“Do you need something?” Stiles asks, voice a little raspy, probably from the cold.

Derek nods and turns back to Laura’s headstone. “I wanted you to meet Laura,” he says, trying to imagine the way Laura would be smiling. “Laur, this is Stiles, the one the betas called. We met at the support group, the one you went to with me. The first time he attended, he had a black eye because he got into a fight with an alpha.”

“Hey,” Stiles says gently, nudging Derek with his knee. “Not cool.”

Derek’s eyes flick to Stiles, then at the ground next to him, then back to the headstone. He feels rather than sees Stiles take a seat next to him, tucking his feet beneath his legs.

“Your brother wanted to rip the other guy’s throat out when I told him,” Stiles says, leaning against Derek’s side just enough to convey he hasn’t let that go yet. “What I didn’t tell him is that I broke that alpha’s nose.”

Derek huffs, amused. “Really?”

“Yeah. Sheriff’s kid, remember? Didn’t matter that I could wield magic or that Scott was a werewolf, my dad put me in self-defense classes as soon as I was old enough to take them.”

“And yet you still manage to get injured all the time.”

“Derek,” Stiles says aghast, hand over his chest like he’s been chastised. He shakes his head, eyes settling back on the headstone. “I’m so sorry, Laura, Derek doesn’t know how handle me being human. Was he like that when you were still here, unsure how to be friends with people who weren’t werewolves?”

There’s no reply but Derek can taste it, the subtle change in Stiles’ scent: the shift from mourning to relief.

“I bet he was,” Stiles says eventually, posture relaxing.

Derek listens to him talk to Laura like he knew her when she was still alive. He and Derek are still getting to know each other, still in that stage where it’s more fact sharing and becoming comfortable with idea of sharing intimate details, close but not at the point of storytelling without inhibition. Yet Stiles talks and talks, so earnestly, and it reminds Derek of the first time he spoke at the support group, going and going until he was asked to stop. Sitting here now, Derek wouldn’t dare.

At some point, Stiles brings Derek into the conversation, leaning against his side again. In the time that’s passed while Stiles spoke, the ache in Derek’s chest has eased enough he can handle this. It’s still difficult but Derek tells Laura about himself without deviating, details of his job and how he’s been thinking about quitting, maybe switching to something that involves working with less people. He sees Stiles smile out of the corner of his eye but continues without pause.

He eventually tells Laura that he misses her everyday but it’s not as bad as it once was. That he knows he was an ass about attending the support group but he’d be so much more of a mess if she had never pushed. That he loves her and hopes she’s happy with the rest of their pack, wherever they are. That the betas are insufferable sometimes but he is forever grateful that she turned them. That Stiles made him eat chocolate the week before and he didn’t entirely hate it.

Stiles, for all that he’s been quiet once Derek took over speaking, starts shaking next to him, breaking into laughter. He’s crying, too, tears streaming down his cheeks, but his scent is no longer swamped with sorrow. Derek watches him get it all out, finds himself smiling as Stiles’ breath hitches, at the careless way he drags his sleeve across his cheeks.

Laura really would have liked him, Derek thinks, as Stiles hiccups.

Derek promises to visit sooner than six months, promises to bring the betas next time and promises to remember her favorite flowers.

“I need to,” Derek starts to say, pointing toward the rest of the headstones. Stiles just nods and doesn’t move away from his spot on the ground.

Derek doesn’t know how long they’ve been here, could estimate it by the placement of the moon in the sky but doesn’t, because it’s late regardless. His legs are stiff from sitting on the cold ground for so long, jeans probably caked with dirt, but he makes his way to edge of the cemetery without falling. There, tucked between two taller headstones, Derek starts with his hellos, his niece’s name unobstructed by wolfsbane.

It takes some time to make it through five of the other relatives lost in the fire, then his parents, their death dates different but the loss felt all the same. His father had been the victim of a car crash and had he been a werewolf, he probably would have survived, but that hadn’t been the case. It had angered Derek when he was younger, that his father had decided to remain forever human, because the bite could have saved him. Now that he’s older he understands why his father never risked it, even before the crash.

Derek's parents loved each other more than any other two people Derek has ever known and the fact that one of them was a human and the other was the alpha of a pack of werewolves never brought imbalance to their relationship, so there wasn’t a reason to risk the bite not taking. Sure, they had their fair share of injuries and squabbles about endangerment, but it never made his father a worse parent. After Cora was born, he used to joke about wanting to have another child for one more chance at not being the only human and every time, Derek’s mother would shake her head and call him ridiculous.

Cora’s grave is the last Derek approaches. There had been more years between them than there had been between he and Laura, but Cora had been as present in his life as Laura had been prior to the fire. More petulant and rough around the edges than either of her siblings but just as kind and loyal and protective. She would have been a force to be reckoned with if she were still alive, Laura said once, wouldn’t have taken shit from anyone, would have gotten along with the betas splendidly.

When Derek turns away from Cora’s grave, he’s surprised to see Stiles still sitting in the same place, eyes closed and hands pressed to the dirt. The subtle tinge of magic that seems to always be a component of Stiles’ scent these days spikes so strongly, Derek flinches. He watches the ground above Laura’s grave glow for a few seconds, then recede. As Stiles draws his hands away, a small shoot of wolfsbane emerges from the dirt, unfurling as it grows into a full bloom. Stiles whispers something to it, blinking his eyes open, sight locking on Derek.

“Ready to go?” he asks, like he hadn’t just made wolfsbane spring from frozen ground.

Derek nods, not sure he can speak.

Stiles nods and leans his weight back on one hand as he stands, legs stiff from sitting. “It was nice to meet you, Laura,” he says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Next time I’ll make sure Derek brings the rest of your pack. Derek, I’m going to go start the car."

Derek watches him walk towards the Camaro, listens to the engine turn over and sees the headlights switch on. He turns back to Laura’s grave and stares at the blossom of wolfsbane, two other stalks now accompanying it. He hears Boyd’s voice in his head and he lets himself believe it.

\- - -

On the drive home, Stiles yawns once, then twice, before Derek glances at the clock on the dashboard.

“It’s four eleven.”

“Mm-hmm,” is the only response he gets as Stiles merges back onto the interstate. “We need to get gas soon.”

“I should drive. You have class in-”

“Four hours, yeah, I know. I’ll be fine.”

“Stiles,” Derek starts but Stiles shakes his head.

“I’ll be fine.”

\- - -

Stiles tries to follow Derek up in the elevator to make sure he makes it into his apartment but Derek diverts him out onto the street, flagging down a nearby cab. The cab pulls to a stop in front of the building and Derek ducks down to hand the driver more than enough cash to cover the fare from here to wherever Stiles wants to be taken. When he stands upright, Stiles’ eyes are focused on the concrete and his scent has shifted to worry.

He goes, though, when Derek reaches for him, drawing him into a hug. It’s not as desperate as the one they shared when Derek let Stiles into his apartment the night prior, but it’s just as meaningful, meant to convey all the gratitude that Derek can muster into physical action rather than words. They hug long enough that the cab driver turns the car off. Derek pulls away first, pressing their foreheads together.

“Thank you,” he says. It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near what Stiles deserves to hear, but it’s all Derek can think to say. “Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles hums, swaying a little as the exhaustion starts to catch up with him.

“Thank you,” Derek repeats.

Stiles bumps his forehead against Derek’s and smiles. “Don’t mention it,” he replies. Somewhere in his coat, his phone starts vibrating and ringing. Without looking, he slips a hand into his right pocket and the noise stops. “I have a lecture to get to."

“The cab will take you there.”

“Okay.” Stiles steps away, lets Derek open the door for him and shuffles halfway in. “I’ll talk to you later, Derek.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, like he’s stuck on a loop.

Stiles shakes his head, still smiling, and shuts the door. The car cranks back to life and shifts into drive, pulling away from the sidewalk in the general direction of Columbia’s campus. Derek can hear Stiles’ heartbeat until the cab turns down an adjacent street a block away, the thud loud but calm.

\- - -

Derek sends a text message to Erica once he’s back inside, apologizing for ignoring her calls and text messages the day before. He sends messages to Boyd and Isaac too, not expecting replies but getting them nonetheless. The pressure on his chest from ignoring his pack is eased when they promise to come by later.

Later turns out to be while Derek is sleeping since he walks out of his bedroom to find Erica, Isaac, and Boyd all perched on the couch very quietly watching something on Netflix. They are cautious for all of five seconds before crowding him, forming one group hug. They need to talk about things, about Laura and Stiles, but for now, both Derek and his wolf are just content to be around their pack.

In the evening, after they’ve left with plans to drive back to Derek’s hometown to see Laura on the weekend, Derek gets a text from Stiles saying only ‘ _Thai or Chinese?_ ’ Derek replies ‘ _thai_ ’ and an hour later, Stiles is standing in the doorway again, looking infinitely better than he had the night before.

\- - -

It gets easier after that, the same way it eventually got easier to accept most of his family perishing years before. Derek still goes to the support group every week, sometimes with Stiles sitting next to him, sometimes not. They always go out for dinner after, but also during other times of the week too. They haven’t talked about what this is yet and Derek is okay with that.

The second week of April, Stiles turns twenty-two. Derek takes him to dinner and a Mets game and it’s the happiest he’s ever seen Stiles. They sit two hundred feet away from first base, Stiles interchanging between reciting the batting statistics of every player that goes to bat and talking about his parents, how they would have loved this. Conversation is eventually lost to the roar of the crowd, Stiles right there with them, shouting as the Mets go into the seventh inning up by two.

A week later, Stiles officially meets the pack. The wolf preens while Derek worries that the betas won’t like him, will be uncomfortable with a mage. They prove his concerns irrelevant, though. Stiles and Erica huddle on the blanket they have laid down, spread across a grassy knoll in Central Park, talking about comics and movies for hours. Isaac joins their conversation when it shifts to television shows, Boyd interjecting here and there. Derek watches them and gets lost in his thoughts of what it would be like if Stiles were officially pack.

A month after that, Derek is sitting in the back of a cab, picking at the suit he’s wearing. The cab comes to a stop a few minutes later and Derek steps out after he pays, eyes flitting over the hordes of people milling around the Columbia University campus. There are students running around in caps and gowns, families taking photos and someone over a loud speaker stating that the commencement ceremony will start soon. Derek tries to get his bearings before walking in the direction of Stiles’ commencement ceremony, located deeper into the campus.

One of the ushers at the entrance to the auditorium hands him a booklet with listings of all the undergraduates before moving to the next person. Derek scans it, looking for _Stiles Stilinski_ only to find another name that he is going to have to ask Stiles how to pronounce instead. The lights flicker and someone on the stage waves a hand off to the side, signaling the graduates to start filing in.

Derek sits through the entire ceremony with the other families and wonders how many of the people walking across the stage are in situations like Stiles’, where the only person to come see him reach this milestone is a friend. When the announcer reads his name, _Stiles_ instead of his real one, Stiles almost trips. He catches himself though, shakes the hands of his advisor and the dean of his college, and like that, it’s over. The closing speech and hat throwing still occurs, but the thrill of it all ends the moment Stiles steps off the stage.

He launches himself at Derek when they finally find each other after, scent a mixture of joy and excitement. Derek can see the subtle sadness in his expression when he thanks Derek for showing up, the _since my dad couldn’t_ going unsaid. Derek squeezes him a little tighter, not wanting him to give into the grief just yet. Stiles laughs and pulls his phone out, takes a picture of them and sends it to the betas and his friend Scott as well. The betas send excited congratulations in return and Scott sends a picture back of what Derek guesses is his own graduation ceremony.

Two days later, Stiles kisses him for the first time. It’s kind of horrible, the way a lot of first kisses are, unplanned and uncoordinated and a mess. At the same time, it’s kind of perfect.

The pack and Stiles are walking to a restaurant that serves all-you-can-eat sushi, the betas in front and Derek and Stiles behind them. Derek can hear them whispering conspiratorially, casting glances over their shoulders every now and then, like they think their alpha might off and disappear with their potential new packmate. Between one of the glances, Stiles nudges Derek in the ribs with his elbow. When Derek looks over, Stiles is there, close like he’s been before, then closer, lips catching the edge of Derek’s chin.

Derek stops walking, Stiles halting next to him like he’s unsure if he made a mistake. As he’s leaning in again, this time more focused, Erica happens to turn around. Just as Stiles kisses him. Then there’s squealing.

Later, after they’ve eaten and Derek has sent the betas off with a boxes of tempura fried green tea ice cream, he reels Stiles in amidst laughter, Stiles’ body shaking with it as he puts his hands in Derek’s hair. Their second kiss starts chaste but lingers and builds until Derek has to pull away and tuck his face into Stiles’ neck. He smells like magic and Derek here, a fact that the wolf may never get used to.

\- - -

The middle of June finds Derek sitting in coach on a flight into SFO. Next to him, Stiles is dozing against his shoulder, eyes closed and pulse lulled with sleep. Their fingers are tangled together on the armrest, not gripping as tightly as they were during takeoff. On the trays of the seats in front of them, their drinks sit sweating condensation, bags of untouched snacks next to them.

The first anniversary of Sheriff John Stilinski’s death is tomorrow. Stiles had mentioned it a month back, before his graduation, that he would be going home. Derek had expected that, knew he probably needed the closure the same way Derek did on the first anniversary of Laura’s death. What he hadn’t expected was Stiles asking if he would come with him.

“Of course,” Derek had said, not hesitating despite the significance of the request.

Stiles had smiled and tucked himself into Derek’s side, returning his focus to the laptop on his legs and the term paper he was editing.

Derek wakes Stiles up as they’re descending with a gentle press of his nose to Stiles’ temple and even gentler whisper. The little gestures that come easy like this, Derek doesn’t know if he’ll ever get over them. This, them, is as simple as breathing. He’s happier now than he was a year ago, still processing Laura’s death. He’s happier than he was six months ago, ending out the year as the last Hale and an alpha when he’d started the year with a sister and as a beta.

The walk from the terminal to baggage claim is made slowly, Stiles still drowsy from the Dramamine he took before takeoff and Derek’s unfamiliarity with the airport. Stiles becomes coherent enough to guide them towards baggage claim, pointing Derek in the direction of the car rental kiosks as he continues on to the baggage carousel for their flight. By the time Derek has filled out paperwork and paid the deposit for the car rental, Stiles is pulling the last of their suitcases off the carousel.

They’re quiet on the walk to the rental car and quiet on the drive, in part because Stiles is still drugged and in part because Stiles hasn’t been home since the funeral and his method of coping is to shut down. Derek listens to the gps on his phone give directions, volume turned as low as possible, soft enough that Stiles won’t hear but Derek will still be able to pick up. Two hours later, he spots a sign that says _NOW ENTERING BEACON COUNTY_. 

The house Derek pulls up to is two stories, a Sheriff’s department cruiser sitting in the driveway. Stiles wakes up when Derek turns the engine off, yawning and shifting in his seat. Derek reaches out and squeezes his hand, wishing he could take awake the sorrow that is radiating off of Stiles the same way he is capable of taking physical pain.

Derek retrieves their bags from the trunk as Stiles approaches the door, knocking. A man with dark hair opens it a few seconds later, saying “you don’t have to knock at your own house, Stiles,” before pulling him into a hug. Derek shuts the trunk and carries their bag to the porch, suddenly alert.

“You must be Derek,” the man says, reaching a hand out. “I’m Jordan Parrish.”

The wolf wants to bare its teeth because the man stepping out of Stiles’ childhood home is _not_ human. Stiles must realize the way Derek has tensed because his eyes shoot to Parrish before he is mouthing "no" and shaking his head like he doesn’t want Derek to mention anything. Derek shakes Parrish’s hand then steps aside as he heads towards the cruiser.

“See you later,” he calls and Stiles shouts “see you” back.

The house looks inviting and lived in, something Derek hadn’t expected when Stiles had said they’d be staying at his childhood home. He knew Stiles hadn’t known what to do with everything after the funeral, had mostly gotten the necessary finances taken care of before leaving again. But Stiles never mentioned that there was someone living here now.

“Parrish doesn’t know that he’s not human,” Stiles says, leading the way through the house and up the stairs. The rooms they pass through don’t smell like Stiles, which makes sense if someone has been living here for the past year. Then Stiles swings the first door on the second floor open and the scent that is so inherently his plumes out of the doorway.

“How does he not know?” Derek asks, setting his suitcase on the floor. 

He takes in the room that eighteen year old Stiles left behind after high school, the band posters on the wall and the picture frames on his armoire. There are clothes hanging in the closet that he probably hasn’t worn for years and stacks of notebooks piled on his desk. 

Stiles doesn’t answer, instead stepping out of his shoes, peeling out of his jacket, and shucking off his jeans. Derek watches him lay down on the bed, sheets musty enough that Derek can smell them from where he is standing. He yawns, turns toward the wall, and mumbles a single request. It takes four strides to cross the room, slip out of his shoes and jeans, and tuck himself against Stiles’ back.

\- - -

When Derek wakes up, Stiles is already awake, staring at the ceiling and absently running his fingers over the arm Derek has across his waist. He smiles and leans over to press his forehead to Derek’s, but it’s subdued, the same way it has been since they got on the plane. His scent, too, is still parts anxiety, sorrow, and discomfort, all things Derek wanted to attribute to Stiles hating planes.

They get out of bed slowly, pulling their clothes back on. Stiles gives a very brief layout of the second floor then disappears, the stairs creaking in his wake. On the wall between Stiles’ bedroom and the bathroom, Derek notices slight discolorations all in the shape of what was probably once picture frames and wonders if Stiles was the one to take them down or if it was Parrish.

When he walks downstairs, he finds Stiles in the kitchen, rifling through a drawer. He must find whatever it is he’s looking for because his pulse raises and he turns to Derek with a small grin. “C’mon,” he says, shrugging his shoulder in the direction of the garage. Inside, beneath a tarp that Stiles pulls carelessly off to the side, is a blue Jeep that has seen better days. Stiles pats its hood then gets in, reaching over to unlock the passenger’s side door.

Derek doesn’t ask where they’re going, just lets Stiles drive, listening to him point out places here and there until they pull into a storage facility.

They’re here, in Beacon Hills, for two things. The first is the anniversary of Stiles’ father’s death. The second, and just as equally difficult to get through, will be packing the rest of Stilinskis’ possessions and moving them to a storage locker until Stiles moves somewhere permanently. Although he graduated a month prior, he’ll be returning to Columbia in the fall for grad school. He still doesn’t know what he wants to do, has the funds to support himself with his parent’s life insurances, and although he doesn’t like using that money, it’s the only thing Stiles is willing to spend it on.

The man at the counter doesn’t look up immediately when they walk in but the moment his eyes catch Stiles’, the air around him goes sour and his expression shifts to something akin to sympathy. Everyone in this town knows who Stiles is, the same way everyone in Derek’s hometown knew him and Laura; it was a curse then as much as it is now. It’s one of the reason’s Derek understands exactly why Stiles has been gone as long as he has and why they’re only staying for five days.

Stiles fills out paperwork, makes plans to rent a moving truck, and is then shown the locker that will be his. Derek holds his hand the entire time, Stiles’ grip growing tighter and tighter. They leave with a trunk full of cardboard boxes and four rolls of packaging tape. Stiles doesn’t talk again until he pulls into the parking lot of a mostly empty shopping mall.

“Food,” he says, “then home.”

The pizza place is a similar size to the one Derek took Stiles to that first dinner but that's where the similarities stop. This one is more homey, doesn’t see nearly the same amount of foot traffic or diversity of people. Whoever is behind the counter recognizes Stiles instantly and Stiles’ scent seeps deeper into discomfort. Derek orders for them, clarifying that it will be to go before anything else. That makes Stiles lean into him and whisper “thank you” so softly Derek knows it is only meant for him.

Dinner is quiet, spent in the kitchen leaning against counters rather than at the table. Stiles is careful not to leave a mess because even though this is technically his home, it is also not. Derek pulls him in for a hug at one point because he’s not use to Stiles being this silent. Stiles tucks his face into Derek’s neck and doesn’t move for a long time.

The rest of the night is spent packing up his room, Derek doing whatever Stiles asks of him. Half the things in the closet go into a donation pile, some into a spare suitcase, and the rest into boxes. Had his home not burned down, Derek and Laura would have had to do this too. It makes the wolf whine in his head.

In the morning, Stiles seems a little better, if only for the hour or so it takes to shower, eat, and make coffee. They have lunch plans with Scott then plan to spend the rest of the afternoon at the cemetery. Stiles is distracted but not as much as Derek had been on the anniversary of Laura’s death.

Scott throws himself at Stiles when they knock on his front door, hugging him and patting his back. Stiles’ resolve breaks a little and his voice cracks as he hugs back, saying "hey dude." When he lets go, he turns toward Derek and reaches out, tugging on the pocket of his coat. “This is Derek,” he says, expression going warm, “the one I met at the support group. Also my boyfriend and the one who’s keeping my shitshow together this week.”

Scott is nice, the way a lot of werewolves Derek has met are not. He doesn’t posture or try to size Derek up, doesn’t flash eyes or drop fangs, does nothing of the sort. The logical part of Derek’s mind thinks that it must be because he is an omega and he’s never had to bother with pack dynamics or dealing with other werewolves. Another part, the one watching Stiles and Scott interact, thinks it’s because Scott is actually a puppy.

Scott’s mother Melissa comes home halfway through lunch, scooping Stiles up into a hug before he can ever set his fork down. Derek makes an excuse to go to the kitchen to give them privacy, not expecting Scott to follow. They haven’t spoken a lot directly, Stiles leading most of the conversation since they arrived.

“You’re going to the cemetery after this, right?” Scott asks, crossing his arms. 

Derek nods, eyes flicking to where Melissa and Stiles are chatting. “We have to pick up flowers he ordered for his mom before we go.”

They don’t say anything after that, Scott returning to the table when Melissa calls for him. Derek rinses off his plate and leaves it in the sink then joins the McCalls and Stiles in the dining room. He takes his seat next to Stiles while Melissa mothers him about the length of his hair, Stiles’ hand searching out Derek’s before he ever sits down.

When they leave, Scott and Stiles hug for a long time. Derek stands off to the side, not expecting Scott to hug him as soon as he lets go of Stiles. He whispers “thank you” into Derek’s ear before letting him go, asking if they will have any time during the rest of their trip to see each other. Stiles nods and says “sure” but it lacks the enthusiasm that was there earlier. Scott doesn’t let that deter him, saying he’ll text Stiles to make plans.

They drive to another part of town, pick up the flowers Stiles ordered over the phone the night before, and leave as quickly as Derek can usher Stiles out the door because the florist is near tears and trying to tell Stiles how sorry she is for his loss. By the time they get to the car, Stiles’ hands are shaking so badly he can’t get the key in the door. Derek takes the keys from him and guides him around the car, unlocking the passenger’s side and holding the door open as Stiles climbs in.

The cemetery parking lot is empty save one car parked at the far end and another pulling out of a parking space. Stiles has the flowers clutched in his lap, knee bouncing and making the jeep shake. Derek shuts the engine off and sits, waits for Stiles to make the decision to exit. Watching Stiles like this puts in perspective how it must have been that night in March, when Derek had barely been functioning. Mage or not, _pack_ or not, Stiles feels this loss as greatly as any werewolf would.

When they do leave the car, Stiles leads them through row after row of graves, some so old the headstones are worn and their text no longer legible. Towards the back, near a small grove of trees breaching out from the forest, Derek hears Stiles’ pulse spike, the scent of anxiety swelling around them. Then they are stopped in front of two headstones, one with a flower engraved below the name _Claudia Wacława Stilinski_ , the other with a six pointed star below the name _Johnathan Anthony Stilinski_.

Stiles’ hands are shaking again as he sets the flowers they bought, flowers that match the ones engraved below _Claudia Wacława Stilinski_ , against her headstone. The night before, Derek had asked why Stiles hadn’t placed an order for his father and Stiles had laughed, the sound broken and hollow. “Dad was allergic,” he had said eventually, then gone silent for the next thirty minutes.

Derek waits, waits for Stiles to start talking, the way he has at the support group and the way he had when they had been at Laura’s grave. The way he does all the time, when he’s nervous or when he’s interested in something or when he’s in a good mood. The way when he really gets going, he can’t help but move his hands and make half formed motions, or the way his skin flushes blotchy red all the way down his throat.

Stiles doesn’t talk though. What he does is sink to the ground, pull he knees to his chest, and start crying. Derek follows, rubbing a hand across Stiles’ back as his sobs grow harder. He doesn’t know how long they sit there like that, only that his palm starts to lose feeling from the coarse fabric of the flannel shirt Stiles is wearing. Stiles keeps crying until Derek is sure he can’t any more, hiccuping and sniffling. There are a few minutes of that, Stiles making soft noises, followed by silence, followed by a choked out a laugh as Stiles wipes at his face with the back of his sleeve and shakes his head.

“Hi mom, hey pop,” he says, sniffling as he wipes a stray tear from his chin. “I’ve missed you guys. I know I said I was going to come back to visit on your birthday, mom, but that was the weekend I graduated. I didn’t subject the announcer to pronouncing my real name, but you’ll be happy to know it will be printed on my diploma.”

“Władysław,” Derek says softly, smiling at the way Stiles groans.

“How is it you can pronounce that perfectly and I’ve been struggling with it my entire life?” Stiles asks, turning towards Derek. He’s not smiling, not really, but the corner of his mouth is turned up like he could. Derek leans over to press a kiss to his forehead, the unease surrounding both of them lessening.

There’s a part of him, a part of the wolf, that still wants to weave itself around Stiles in an effort to protect him from all the bad things in the world, even after months of getting to know Stiles, almost a year since he first came to the support group. Derek logically knows that it’s not possible, that Stiles wouldn’t want it even if it was because he’s capable of protecting himself. It doesn’t change the fact that the wolf, and by default Derek, wishes that of all things, they could shield Stiles from this, the ache of knowing what it feels like to be the last member of one’s family.

Stiles sighs and rests his cheek against his knees, taking in Derek for a few seconds before turning back towards his parents' headstones.

“This is Derek. He's an alpha werewolf. I know that probably worries you, pops, but I’m okay, promise. He has a really great pack. Plus, Scott vetted him. And,” Stiles pauses, pulling his knees closer again, “and he’s the last living member of his family like me.”

If Stiles’ parents were alive, it would be instinctual to offer them reassurances that what Stiles said is true, that Derek being part of the supernatural world will not endanger Stiles in any way, that Derek would protect him at all costs, the way he would any member of his pack, that Stiles is strong in his own right. But they’re not, so Derek says the most honest thing he can think of instead.

“Hello, my name is Derek Hale, and I think I am falling in love with your son.”

**Author's Note:**

> As sad as the tags are on this fic, at least everything ended happily, so yay? I hope this was worth the wait!!!
> 
> Here's the link to Fenech-Soler's [_Youth_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hx1RqFHrcG0) again.
> 
> And as always, I'm on [tumblr](https://stayingputwouldbeablunder.tumblr.com)! Come say hi.


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